The Enemy of My Enemy
by Eleutherya
Summary: Sequel to Measure of a Man: Following the Battle of New York, Loki has been taken back to Asgard to answer for his crimes. But though the Chitauri have been foiled in their attempt to obtain the Tesseract, the battle is far from over. Is their fight only for the Cosmic Cube . . . or does revenge play a central role?
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

A vast, empty realm.

The stars glittering overhead, tiny pinpricks of light hardly seen in the void around them. A black rock floating in the midst of ruin and desolation. Remnants of long-ago splendid dwellings, now reduced to rubble and decay, neglected by their previous owners. No lights glimmer from its surface, no warmth from the distant stars warms the cold stone far below.

A lone figure slowly crawls its way to the summit of the tallest spiral on that frozen rock. Up, up hundreds of carven steps it climbs, head bowed, face hidden behind a hooded cowl. Its hideous six-fingered hands clutch at its cloak nervously, as if it had something to fear.

At last, it reaches the final step, hesitating for a moment before coming forward and kneeling before a huge carven throne, facing away from the creature.

"You sent for me . . . my master?" it hisses softly, its voice echoing ominously over the empty landscape.

Its question fades into silence as it awaits a reply from the silent figure on the throne. As the heavy pause continues, the creature wavers nervously, face downcast. Finally, the shadow speaks.

**"****You have failed me."**

The voice is so low it shakes the ground beneath the Other's feet, so ominous it sends a shiver of dread through his servant's body.

"My lord . . . I could not have-"

**"****The Traitor failed to bring me the Tesseract, and you failed to kill him for his insolence – therefore you betrayed me." **The dark voice smiles, sensing the Other's fear. **"I should punish you for such a disappointment."**

The Other stiffens, terrified lest its master turn and make good on his threat. But after a few moments of tense silence Thanos merely laughs.

**"****But I am not without mercy. I will allow you to atone for your mistake."** The Titan stands, his back to the Other, gazing out intently at the stars. **"Bring the Tesseract to me, and you will live."**

"And . . . the Traitor?" the Other presses, a black hatred in his voice.

A deep, pleased rumble of laughter rolls from Thanos again.

**"****Loki is no longer of any interest to me. He has proved a most . . . difficult servant to bend. Therefore, you may do with him as you please."**

"My lord . . .?"

Thanos smiles.

**"****Break him."**

* * *

_Author's Note_: _Greetings once again, fellow fans! Yes, after much hinting and teasing and delays (so so so sorry!), I give to you your first taste of the sequel to Measure of a Man - THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY! Hope this little tidbit will be enough to tide you all over until I can get the next chapters up. I have the entire story plotted out already, so it's just a matter of writing the chapters. I thank you all for your patience so far, and I would ask that you continue to be patient with me, as my life has gotten so crazy busy that it has made writing anything very difficult. But enough excuses! What are your thoughts on this prologue? What are you hoping to see in this story? Any theories on plot or direction yet? I would love to hear what you all think! (And who knows? If your ideas really strike my fancy, I might just write them into the story!) Please leave reviews! I LOVE hearing from all of you!_


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Welcome Home**

The broken light of morning crashed through the windows to shine upon the figure of an equally broken prince.

At least, many would have called him a prince a mere year ago. A bitter, jealous, conniving prince, but a prince nonetheless.

But that was before – before he plunged three realms into war and chaos simply to satisfy what most thought to be a pointless aspiration: to prove himself worthy.

Now, all that stood in the light of that golden realm was a dangerous criminal.

Shackles slithered up from his ankles, hung from his wrists, encased his neck. Every link grated harshly against each other and the clamor echoed through the nearly silent throne room.

The hollow click of booted feet sounded against the cold stone and metal beneath the young man's steps. Old leather, faded green velvet, tarnished golden armor gave the impression of opulence that had since been lost . . . or abandoned . . . or perhaps simply forgotten in the wake of reckless ambition. Long black hair hung about his shoulders in a style that most would not have considered proper for a prince – even a former prince. The flashes of faded gold and cold steel glinted together with every step the young man took down the long, empty corridor. His pace was only just fast enough to keep the guards from tugging impatiently on the shackles about his waist.

His ingratiating smile looked disturbingly out of place as his bright, calculating eyes fixed on the throne far ahead. If he could have burned the figure seated on that throne out of existence, it was clear in his gaze he would have done it in a heartbeat. But the shackles on his wrists made that impossible. So, a sarcastic sneer would have to do.

It was not until a voice whispered from the shadows that his gaze strayed from the dais.

"Loki . . ."

It was so soft that it was almost unheard. But it was enough to catch the man's attention. A woman stepped out from behind one of the columns to meet his eye, and though there was a brief flicker of recognition in his gaze, he kept his face a picture of studied indifference.

"Hello again, Mother. Have I made you proud?" he murmured, quirking an eyebrow up mockingly.

"Please, don't make this worse," she almost begged, wringing her hands together nervously.

The young man glanced back up at the throne, then back to the woman, brows furrowed in derisive confusion.

"Define 'worse.'" The chains about his body rattled again, their voices echoing the unspoken thought between mother and son:

_It can't get much worse than this_.

"Enough!" the figure on the throne finally spoke up, drawing the attention of the other two. "I will speak to the prisoner alone."

It was clearly a dismissal. With one last glance at her son (_please at least be civil . . ._) the woman turned and quickly walked away. The prisoner's eyes followed her until her footsteps receded into silence. He then turned to face the throne, taking a few more measured steps towards the dais with an expression of solemn gravity. The chains jangled harshly at the movement. Then he snapped his heels together in a salute, the sharp clang of the ankle cuffs shattering through the air.

There was a pause, and it seemed the young man could not keep a straight face anymore. He laughed – almost _giggled_ – and relaxed from his rigid pose. Glancing back up at the throne he spread his hands in a placating gesture.

"I really don't see what all the fuss is about."

The figure on the throne was far less than pleased, and seemed to see a seriousness in these proceedings that the prisoner could (or would) not.

"Do you truly not feel the gravity of your crimes? Wherever you go there is war, ruin . . . and death."

The prisoner shrugged, black locks brushing against the ancient collar about his neck, and made a dismissive gesture with his hands – or as dismissive as his limited movement could make it.

"I went down to Midgard to rule the people of Earth as a benevolent god," he glared meaningfully up at the old man, sneering, "just like you."

"We are not gods. We're born. We live. We die – just as humans do."

The prisoner attempted a serious nod.

"Give or take 5,000 years," he sneered. The king shook his head softly.

"All this because Loki desires a throne."

"It is my birthright!" the dark-haired young snapped angrily.

"Your BIRTHRIGHT . . . was to DIE!" the king bellowed. "As a child: cast out onto a frozen rock."

The prisoner blinked rapidly, unable to completely conceal the unwanted hurt in his eyes at that harsh reminder. The king went on.

"If I had not taken you in, you would not be here now to hate me."

The young man took a step forward, hands spread out pleadingly. But his eyes still held mirth and amusement.

"If I am for the axe, then for mercy's sake just . . . swing it." The mocking demeanor slid away from his expression, leaving behind a look of bitter hurt. "It's not that I don't love these little talks, it's just . . . I _don't_ love them."

The old man sighed, leaning back against his throne.

"I have no desire for your death, Loki, and I pity you that you would think so little of me. It does not give me pleasure to say any of these things. I would wish for nothing more than to have you standing here by my side . . . not there before me in chains. I did not give you the love and appreciation you deserved as a child, and for that I am truly sorry. But my failings do not absolve you from the consequences of your actions, for they were yours and yours alone."

Loki shrugged indifferently, the chains clamoring at the movement.

"I was merely giving truth to the lie I've been fed all my life – that I was born to be a king."

"A true king admits his faults, as I have done. It is time you faced your own failings. What of the lives you took on Earth?"

"A mere handful compared to the lives you yourself have taken."

"Your impertinence only gives weight to the fact that, as much as you claim the contrary, you know nothing about what it means to truly be a king."

"I _was_ a king, once, if you recall," the young man mocked, but his fists clenched angrily. "Oh, wait. That's right. You _can't_ recall that, can you? When you rightfully banished that brash fool you call your son, I was made king in his stead – by your wife, no less."

"Frigga is the only reason you're still alive-"

"And I suppose I'll never see her again, yes?" the prisoner sneered, seemingly unaffected by such a possibility.

"Frigga, and Thor with her, have told me of both your criminal endeavors and the ordeal you experienced in the aftermath of the battle. However wrong your actions may have been, the simple fact that you did not see them through tells me that you still have a conscience, that you are not as far-gone as the rest of Asgard seems to think you are. If it were not for your choice – your choice to turn away from the destructive path you had taken – your punishment would have been much more severe."

"And just what sort of punishment have you dreamed up for me, All Father?" the prisoner asked lightly. "I'm sure you've had plenty of time to concoct a truly diabolical sentence, since you've clearly had nothing else better to do in my absence. Tell me – I'm _dying_ to hear it."

The meaning was well implied, but the king chose not to speak on that subject again.

"I am not a cruel man." Here the prisoner snorted in disbelief. "The punishment will fit with the crime. You have atoned for many of your failings, but the matter of your heart is still in question. You will therefore spend the foreseeable future in the dungeons."

The young man furrowed his eyebrows, quirking his head to the side.

"So . . . an extended Time-Out, essentially."

"Until you can be trusted with the power and freedom your upbringing has given you . . . yes," the king smiled slightly. "Perhaps a 'Time-Out' is what is best suited for you. Time enough to think on the error of your ways and perhaps repent of them."

The bitter smirk on the prisoner's face gave little hope of repentance.

"Guards, take him away," the king instructed, and the two armored men holding the chains tugged at them impatiently. The prisoner was drawn back a few paces, but he continued to stare disbelievingly up at the throne.

"And what of Thor? You'll make that witless oaf king while I rot in chains?"

"Thor must strive to undo the damage you have done, he will restore order to the Nine Realms and then . . . yes. He will be king. But not because he is the wisest, nor because he is truly ready for such a heavy burden as the kingship. But rather because he learned something that you, I fear, may never truly understand."

"And that is?"

There was a pause, and All Father gazed down on the prisoner in what could only be sadness.

"Repentance."

A strange look passed over the dark-haired man's face. If one had not known better, they would have said the expression was one of shame. The bright green eyes fell from the king's gaze to stare at the floor before the dais, and his chained hands clenched and unclenched unconsciously. His jaw tightened, as if to clamp down on the unwanted and unwelcome brightness in the corners of his eyes.

But when the guards yanked on their chains again, his expression hardened once more.

"I think you will find that repentance is not in my nature, Odin. Nor is forgiveness."

He turned his back on the king and let himself be taken away without a backward glance.


End file.
